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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206653">deep in the cell of my heart</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/phcbosz/pseuds/phcbosz'>phcbosz</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Drinking, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide, Therapy, Unrequited Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:40:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,157</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206653</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/phcbosz/pseuds/phcbosz</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When they kiss, Martin feels like he was a full glass on the edge of the table, his insides wobbling, not knowing when he is  going to fall, not knowing if he will ever feel safe again—when they kiss, Martin feels like Andres picked him up and put him in the middle of the table, and he wants Andres to take a sip, he wants to be absorbed by Andres until there is nothing left of himself, until there is no Martin without Andres, and no Andres without Martin.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>121</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>please PLEASE read the tags!! &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“We are soulmates,” Andres says, and when they kiss, Martin feels like all his life, he has been living for this. Every time he came too close to death only to get lucky at the last minute, it was so he could finally have this.</p>
<p> When they kiss, Martin feels like he was a full glass on the edge of the table, his insides wobbling, not knowing when he is  going to fall, not knowing if he will ever feel safe again—when they kiss, Martin feels like Andres picked him up and put him in the middle of the table, and he wants Andres to take a sip, he wants to be absorbed by Andres until there is nothing left of himself, until there is no Martin without Andres, and no Andres without Martin.</p>
<p> “We are soulmates,” Andres says.</p>
<p> “But only 99 percent,” Andres says.</p>
<p> Andres leaves. He does it slow, like ripping off a band-aid inch by inch, pulling skin; like moving a blade against your skin; like dying, or what Martin imagines dying to be.</p>
<p> He can hear glass breaking. It’s him. Andres leaves, and Martin falls off the edge of the table, and shatters into a tiny million pieces.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> The first thing he does is get drunk. Some people drink to have fun. Martin drinks to get drunk. Some people like to swim, Martin likes to drown—</p>
<p> There is nothing left. There is nothing left, now. So. Martin gets drunk. He gets <i>wasted.</i></p>
<p> He screams until his voice is hoarse, he cries, loud and uncontained, because there is nothing left, there is nobody around to hear him, now. He cries and he cries until he can’t anymore, until he feels like he is drowning in his own tears, and he wishes he could actually do it, he wishes it was easy to just pinch his nose closed, press down on his mouth, go to sleep and never wake up again.</p>
<p> He has a gun. The thought plagues his mind like a disease. I have a gun, I have a gun, I have a gun—it’s a mantra in his head, and it would be so easy, so easy, Martin knows.</p>
<p> Martin knows. He knows how to handle a gun.</p>
<p> Head wounds bleed the fastest, Martin thinks.</p>
<p> I have a gun, Martin thinks.</p>
<p> Now, that there is nothing left, what else is he supposed to do anyway? It seems so pathetic. Andres left, and Martin is taking out his gun from under the mattress in a daze. He is pathetic. But what else is he supposed to do?</p>
<p> “What did you expect, Andres,” he whispers to the empty room, slurs actually, and then chuckles to himself. It spooks him, how empty his laugh sounds. How empty he feels.</p>
<p> Andres reached inside of his chest and took out a part of him, left a void that can never be filled, and Martin doesn’t know what to do now, now that he has nothing else left—</p>
<p> He sits in front of the gun for a long time, just staring. He feels away from himself, like he is a spirit in the room, watching himself from above. He sees himself scratch his arms, he sees himself bleed, but he doesn’t feel pain, he doesn’t feel anything anymore—</p>
<p> He would do anything to feel something.</p>
<p> He just wants Andres back.</p>
<p> “You won’t ever see this,” he writes, “you won’t ever see this, but I wanted to tell you anyway. It’s your fault. Andres, you broke me, and you knew what you were doing. It’s your fault,” he writes, but then his anger drains fast, like someone pulled the plug, and he slumps in his seat, realizes he is crying again only by the wetness he feels on his cheeks.</p>
<p> “I’m sorry,” he writes, “I’m sorry I loved you. But I loved you so much, Andres. We could be perfect together. We could be the perfect story ever written. I’m not mad at you for not loving me. I wouldn’t love me either. I’m just mad at you for leaving. Why couldn’t you just have stayed? We could go back to pretending. I would never complain about not having all of you, I would be happy with what I was given, always, and I would dance with the bride at your next wedding… Why did you leave, Andres? Now, I don’t know what to do. I have nothing else left; you know you were everything to me. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry for being so weak, falling in love with you, and now doing this. I’m sorry, Andres, it’s not your fault but I do hope you miss me, please, don’t just move on like nothing happened, Andres, 10 years I’ve been by your side, please remember me, please don’t just forget, Andres. I love you; I love you, and I will love you forever,” he writes, and at this point he doesn’t even feel like crying. He just feels strangely peaceful.</p>
<p> He puts the piece of paper away, and when he picks the gun up, his hands are the steadiest they have ever been. It’s cold and it’s heavy in his hands. He puts it under his chin, then he realizes he really wants to feel it in his mouth, in some kind of fucked up fashion.</p>
<p> He pushes the gun in, licks around it, and it tastes like blood, metallic and cold, and he wonders if Andres will ever come back, only to find Martin’s body on the ground, without a head.</p>
<p> He thinks about what Andres will think when he gets the news. Will he be disgusted with how weak Martin acted? Will he be sad? Will he even care—</p>
<p> His hand dances on the trigger, and he wants to pull the trigger, he wants to, he wants to—</p>
<p> “One,” he says around the gun, then finds that it’s quite stupid to count out loud but he does so anyway, “two.”</p>
<p> His hand starts shaking. His whole body is shaking.</p>
<p> When he closes his eyes all he sees is Andres, like the man is plastered behind his eyelids—</p>
<p> He breathes. Three, he thinks, and he feels like smiling, in a fucked-up way.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p> Somewhere far away, Andres is finding it hard to sleep, tossing and turning in his bed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Andres comes back. He says he’s sorry. He says he feels like he lost a piece of himself when he left.</p><p> Martin knows the feeling. Ever since Andres left, he has walked around feeling like he forgot something at home, but no matter how many times he check his pockets, everything is right there, phone, wallet, keys, but he’s so sure he is missing something, he forgot something home, because there is no other explanation for the way he feels empty, like something there should be there isn’t, like he lost a vital piece of himself, like he will never feel full again—</p><p> “I wasn’t lying,” Andres says. “We are soulmates.”</p><p> Martin almost feels like laughing. He almost cries. Andres is right in front of him, and Martin has dreamed of this for months now, every night he went to bed, and he just wished for Andres to come back, and now the man is here, the man is here and all Martin wants is for Andres to disappear again.</p><p>*</p><p> “I’m sorry,” Andres says, “I’m so sorry, Martin.”</p><p> It’s not the first time he has said it, it won’t be the last.</p><p>*</p><p> They have breakfast together.</p><p> When Martin can’t sleep, late at night, and he gets up to pace around mindlessly, Andres is always there, ready to just sit in the living room, not saying anything, not trying to stop Martin, just existing in the same space as him, almost as if to say <i>I’m here,</i> I’m here, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.</p><p> It feels tangible. Something Martin can reach out to touch, something he can hold—</p><p> Some days, he tosses and turns in his bed, and he can’t sleep, and all he wants to do is go knock on Andres’ door, invite himself, get in the bed, crawl into the man’s arms, again, like nothing ever changed.</p><p> But everything changed. Andres did leave. Martin is still picking up the pieces of himself scattered across the floor.</p><p> <i>But god,</i> his bed is so cold sometimes, and he shivers as he cries, just wanting someone’s arms around him, just wanting to feel Andres’ arms around him again.</p><p>*</p><p> “Martin,” Andres starts sometimes, like he wants to talk, heavy and meaningful, and he always looks so sad that Martin wants to look away, out of respect for Andres and also because it’s uncomfortable to see Andres like that, looking so not like himself, looking like someone kicked his puppy—</p><p> “Andres,” Martin replies, in a voice, and that’s just the man’s name, that’s just his name, Martin doesn’t even say anything else, but Andres sighs all the same, and he shuts up anyway.</p><p>*</p><p> When Martin can’t quite find the energy to get out of bed, Andres brings him breakfast in bed. Martin just wants to be left alone, he wants to die, alone, in his own bed, in his own filth, like the pathetic animal he is.</p><p>*</p><p> “Martin,” Andres says, “<i>Martin, Martin, Martin.</i>”</p><p> When Martin sleeps, he can still hear it, like a prayer for which no words exist.</p><p>*</p><p> One day, Andres has enough of him, drags him out of bed, like a lifeless doll, and Martin wants to protest, he wants to beat the shit out of Andres, he wants to scream—</p><p> He just doesn’t have the energy for it.</p><p> Andres drags him to the shower, pushes him in, and Martin goes, and then Andres opens the water, ice cold, and Martin is freezing, and he just collapses to the ground, shivering, and the only warmth he feels is his tears against his cheeks, and as he sits there, he has a sudden realization that he just wants to stay there, forever, he never wants to leave, he just wants to stay there and drown—</p><p> Andres shuts off the water, and then there are arms around Martin, so warm, and so strong, and Martin has wanted this for so long that it seems unreal, like a dream. Andres hugs him tight and like he will never let go again.</p><p> “It’s okay, shh, it’s okay, Martin, mi amor,” Andres is whispering, and he keeps whispering, and he says it so much that Martin almost believes it.</p><p>*</p><p> Sometimes Martin wants to speak, but he has no lungs, he wants to kiss Andres, but he has no lips—</p><p>*</p><p> “How did those happen, Martin?” Andres asks, and it’s so vague but they both know what he is talking about, they both know about the scars adorning Martin’s wrists.</p><p> “It used to help,” Martin replies simply, shrugging, and he prays that Andres doesn’t push, but Andres has never been the type to leave something alone.</p><p> “It used to help?” The man repeats, and Martin can’t quite look him in the eyes now, so he starts picking at his fingernails, until Andres reaches forward, makes him stop by taking his hands in his own, and oh to be held—</p><p> “Why do you still do it if it doesn’t help anymore, then?”</p><p> “Andres,” Martin just says, pulling his hands back and standing up so suddenly that his vision goes dizzy for a second. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”</p><p> When he walks away, Andres doesn’t call out for him.</p><p>*</p><p> They have their first fight not too long after that. Martin doesn’t even remember what it’s about, he just remembers how angry he felt, how much he wanted to hurt Andres, how he saw red and nothing else—</p><p> “It’s your fault, Andres!” He screams, and it feels good, it feels so good to finally scream. “You left, you asshole, and now you think you can just come back and make it all okay again? We both know that it would have been better if you stayed away forever, with time I would heal, but you came back, because you are selfish, because Tatiana left and you didn’t want to be alone, and you knew I would take you in, because you know how easy I am, and you don’t care about me, Andres, you don’t care about anyone but yourself!”</p><p> He takes a deep breath, looks away from Andres because he can’t handle looking at Andres when he looks so sad like that, especially now that he knows he is the cause of it. “What, you think you can just come back and fix me? Make everything go back to the way it used to? Well, you can’t, you asshole, you can never undo what you fucking did, so why don’t you just fucking leave me alone already?”</p><p>*</p><p> Andres leaves. He takes his coat and he leaves without a word. Martin doesn’t sleep the whole night, and he can’t stop crying even though he knows it’s for the best.</p><p> Andres leaves and Martin knows he won’t come back this time, he is too prideful for that, and it feels almost worse, somehow, like he could handle Andres leaving the first time, but the second time is too much, it’s the drop that makes the water spill—</p><p> He hates himself for making Andres leave, he hates himself for missing him. He hates himself so much.</p><p>*</p><p> The next morning, Andres is there. <i>Andres is there Andres is there Andres is there—</i></p><p> Andres came back.</p><p>*</p><p> “I will always come back to you, mi amor,” Andres says into the hug, and Martin just wants to melt into his arms, he wants to become a puddle on the ground and he wants Andres to step on him—</p><p> “One day you will get too tired of me,” Martin replies, and he knows it to be truth but then—</p><p> But then.</p><p> “No. I will always come back.”</p><p> And god, Andres sounds so honest when he says that it’s so hard to not believe him.</p><p>*</p><p> “I made breakfast,” Martin says, and he doesn’t know why it feels weird to say, why he feels so awkward standing there, but he also knows, in some way.</p><p> It’s because it’s been so long since he could get out of bed without Andres all but forcing him, it’s been so long since he had anything for breakfast except for alcohol if Andres didn’t prepare anything.</p><p> Please don’t make it weird, he thinks, please don’t make it weird, he prays.</p><p> “Good morning,” Andres simply says, rubbing his eyes, and he looks so soft like that, in his silk pajamas with his always perfect hair ruined by sleep. “I’m starving!”</p><p>*</p><p> Martin starts going for walks, early in the morning, when the sky is gray, and the streets are quiet. It relaxes him, and it feels good to leave the small apartment sometimes.</p><p> He doesn’t know if he’s healing or if he’s just losing it more and more every day.</p><p>*</p><p> Andres is there, through every step. Andres never leaves.</p><p> Not even when Martin cuts too deep one day, and they need to rush to the ER, and he is bleeding on Andres’ car’s fancy leather seats, and he’s dizzy, and Andres looks like he is about to lose it.</p><p> “I’m sorry, Andres,” he keeps saying, slurring, voice sounding too far away to his ears, like he is under water, and everything feels muffled, like someone turned the sound down, like someone shoved him under water until he blacked out, and now he just woke up again, gasping for breath. “I’m so sorry.”</p><p> Andres is there.</p><p> But Andres doesn’t reply.</p><p> He just clenches his jaw, and stares straight ahead, and he doesn’t say anything for quite a while.</p><p>*</p><p> The next morning, Martin wakes up to the smell of breakfast, and he opens his eyes slowly, making sure it’s not a dream.</p><p> Andres is in the kitchen, humming to himself and Martin feels like he is too small in the big room, like he is too big inside his skin.</p><p> He fidgets with the bandage on his wrist. “Good morning,” he says, voice hoarse and tired.</p><p> Andres turns and smiles at him. “Good morning, mi amor,” the man says, “are you hungry?”</p><p> Martin shrugs. “I could eat.”</p><p> “Take a seat, then. I made your favorite—”</p><p> “Are you just going to pretend nothing happened?” He asks, and he’s surprised to find himself angry. He doesn’t feel angry. His voice still comes out that way.</p><p> “Martin,” Andres sighs, taking a few steps forward until he is standing in front of Martin, only an arm’s length of space between them, and Martin wants him to get closer, closer, until there is no space between them. “I want to talk about it only if you want to talk about it.”</p><p> “I don’t really know what to say,” he just replies to that, voice no longer angry, like he is a balloon and Andres is a needle.</p><p> “You don’t have to say anything,” Andres whispers, taking another step forward, and they are so close now, so close—</p><p> “I wish you would never hurt yourself again because it hurts me to see you hurt, but I know I can’t stop you,” Andres looks away.</p><p> Martin wants to kiss Andres, then. He always wants to kiss Andres. He reaches forward, grabs Andres’ neck and turns the man towards him, and blue meets brown, and Martin wants to disappear inside Andres’ eyes, and he leans forward—</p><p> Andres leans back.</p><p> “Let’s eat, mi amor,” the man says, and Martin swallows, feeling like he just lost but he doesn’t understand what.</p><p>*</p><p> “Why are you doing this?” He can’t help but ask one day, as they are sitting on the couch, Andres sketching on his notebook, and Martin pretending that he’s reading.</p><p> “What do you mean?” Andres asks, not looking up.</p><p> “You don’t want me,” Martin says, and his voice sounds so hurt, though he tries to hide it, his chest hurts saying it out loud. He should be used to it by now. Andres never wanted him, not really. But it still hurts. It burns like a gentle fire that he will never be able to put out.</p><p> Andres looks up, hand stopping and a few seconds pass before he puts his notebook down on the coffee table and clears his throat. “Of course I want you, mi amore,” Andres says, and Andres leans forward, and Andres looks so honest, “you are the love of my life, Martin.”</p><p> “That’s not true,” Martin scoffs, though he knows one thing Andres has never been is a liar.</p><p> “It is,” Andres presses, taking Martin’s hand in his own, rubbing circles on it, “would I lie to you, Martin?”</p><p> “You don’t want to be with me,” Martin says, embarrassed to feel the pout on his lips.</p><p> “The only reason for that is you’re not okay yet—”</p><p> Martin pulls his hand away harshly, “what, so you don’t want to be with me because I’m broken?” There’s laughter in his voice but he feels like anything but laughing.</p><p> “No, no, Martin, por favor,” Andres comes closer to him on the couch, and Martin can’t move back, he can, he could never run away from Andres, “I just want you to have other stuff to live for. I don’t want you use this relationship as a reason to live, like it used to be.”</p><p> Martin wants to get angry; he wants to get up and scream and storm out—</p><p> But he knows that Andres is right.</p><p> “I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again,” he whispers, like it’s a secret, and maybe it is, because it feels scary to say it.</p><p> “Of course you will, Martin,” Andres is quick to reply. “It will take time, but of course you will.”</p><p>*</p><p> “Do you want to go dancing?” Andres asks one day, “I feel like dancing.”</p><p> So, they do it. They go dancing, and they dance fast, and they dance slow, and it feels a lot like something Martin isn’t ready to say yet.</p><p>*</p><p> His first therapy session goes okay. He doesn’t really know how he feels about the whole thing, but when he comes out to see Andres waiting for him with a smile on his lips, Martin can’t help but smile back.</p><p>*</p><p> They go dancing a lot. They chat with other people at the club, they drink, they dance, and then they come back home, giggling, and a tangle of limbs, and it’s so scary, <i>it’s so scary—</i></p><p> Martin is getting used to laughing again.</p><p>*</p><p> “I miss stealing,” he admits one day, and Andres looks up from the newspaper, stares at him with a thoughtful look in his eyes—</p><p> “Let’s go steal something, then,” Andres says.</p><p> “What’s stopping us?” Andres asks.</p><p> So, they rob a small jewelry store, and it’s a small job, <i>but god</i> Martin missed it so much, he missed this so much, and when they get back home, they celebrate by opening a bottle of champagne, and they sit close on the couch, knees touching and elbows bumping together, and their faces are so close that Martin feels like it would take a little bit of leaning in—</p><p> But the small space between their lips seem like miles, then, when Andres leans back after seeing the look in Martin’s eyes.</p><p>*</p><p> Sometimes, Martin misses Andres even when the man is right in front of him.</p><p>*</p><p> Weeks pass. Time goes slow, time goes fast.</p><p> Martin goes to therapy, Martin goes dancing, he takes walks early in the morning, comes back home and prepares breakfast, Andres drinks coffee from the same mug as him because early in the morning, Andres is lazy, he doesn’t want to get up to pour himself a cup and—</p><p> And Martin finds it easier to laugh every day. He finds it easier to touch Andres without burning his hands. He finds it easier. Everything seems better, then.</p><p>*</p><p> “Grief is just love with no place to go,” his therapist says.</p><p> “But I didn’t lose anyone,” Martin replies, and it’s the truth, he lost Andres for a while but Andres is back now, Andres is right outside the door, waiting for him, so they can go get some drinks afterwards.</p><p> “Yet you’re still grieving,” his therapist says.</p><p>*</p><p> Martin thinks maybe he is grieving the person he used to be.</p><p>*</p><p> He doesn’t know what it means if it gets easier every day. If the tightness in his chest disappears, if he doesn’t feel like somebody is sitting on him every day he wakes up—</p><p> He doesn’t know if he is turning into the person he used to be, or if he’s molding into a new one from the ashes of the last, like a phoenix.</p><p>*</p><p> They first kiss on a rainy day, and it’s a lazy morning followed by a lazy afternoon, the TV playing in the background as they lay tangled on the couch, Andres sketching Martin and Martin pretending to read a book but in reality only stealing small looks at Andres, while the sun pours in through the window in small rays, and makes everything look pure again—easy.</p><p> They kiss, and Martin feels like he has been waiting for this for a long time, now, he has been waiting for this moment for a long time, but it’s not everything that matters. He wasn’t born to kiss Andres.</p><p> Still, it feels good to do it.</p><p>*</p><p> “Do you think I’m different?” He asks one day, when they are about to go to bed.</p><p> They sleep in the same bed now.</p><p> “Yes,” Andres replies simply.</p><p> Martin swallows. “Do you like it?”</p><p> Andres takes a deep breath. “Does it matter if I like it? It’s you.”</p><p> Martin thinks maybe it matters if Andres likes the new him or not, but he also thinks, maybe, the old Martin would change himself  so Andres would like him, but the new Martin would just accept it and move on—</p><p> “You’re stronger now,” Andres says. “I think it’s beautiful.”</p><p>*</p><p> They make love.</p><p> Andres tries to kiss the scars on his wrists—</p><p> Martin pulls his arm away. “Don’t do that,” he says, because the scars are old now, and they don’t matter, they are just some lines to show the struggle he went through, but he won now, he won, and he just wants to forget about them.</p><p> “Don’t do that,” he says, so Andres lets go of his arm and just kisses him instead.</p><p>*</p><p> They are just going forward. They keep going forward every day.</p><p>*</p><p> Somedays it’s still hard. Somedays Martin wakes up to find his arms itchy. Somedays they fight and he is sure Andres won’t come back again this time. Somedays he finds it hard to get out of bed.</p><p> Andres is still there. Andres is always there, but Martin knows even if he left, he would be able to move on, he would keep going forward, and never go back again.</p><p>*</p><p> This is everything he has always dreamed about, and he couldn't ask for anything else.</p><p>*</p><p> Fin.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>would u want a part 2 to this? idk i do be going thru it at the moment but im also a bitch for happy endings lol. please comment and let me know what u think! also find me on <a href="https://twitter.com/wlwloser">twitter</a> and come scream at me if u want!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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